


Service

by Mother_North, Puniyo



Series: Your faith, In My Hands [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Psychological Drama, Religious Themes, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-23 11:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17682212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_North/pseuds/Mother_North, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: Following Yuzuru's baptism, Javier finds himself seeking to know more of his new altar boy, one of the two stray cats he has promised to take care of. Even if it makes him doubt his own faith.





	1. Part I - The Crown of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Dear all, here comes the second installment of this series! *Claps merrily* 
> 
> I sincerely don't know what to write here except that we (authors) are very grateful for your support and feel free to send us your theories if you have any. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of FICTION. A normal dictionary should give you a good definition. Art for art's sake. 
> 
> (And thank you again my dear Mother_North for being in this journey with me <3)

It is all enveloped in the morning mist, shrouded by the plains of clouds descending at the mountain peaks. He is coming home but he has never been there, the town with the same streets of cracked cement pavements and rainbow-colored modest houses and yet the number plates are all different. ‘You are finally back saint Javier!’ The aroma of freshly baked bread, honeyed cinnamon streusels and candied egg custard part from the windows of the nunneries with flour stained doorsteps.

‘Will you help us, saint Javier?’ He nods but he doesn’t know what he should do. The children and their grandmothers, the maidens and their promised men of honor, a whole human procession strolls from the fortified walls around the town until the center of the public square, where he sits now by the central pillar of marble. The pillar of justice where thieves heard their sentence and unfaithful spouses had their vows branded on their skin. It is market day today and the merchants, their hands full of fruits and flowers, run to him.

‘Here, saint Javier, the best pomegranates in town’, ‘carnations, saint Javier, they smell like a mother’s hug’, ‘sardines, sardines that jumped to the nets when they heard you were returning, saint Javier, sardines!’, ‘sweet, saint Javier, is the corn that bloomed last night and swelled this morning so it could be harvested for you’, ‘don’t forget the wine, saint Javier, and the grapes that burst of joy with your arrival.’

And from all of them he accepted their gifts and they ate and drank until their stomachs were full and satisfied. It is a lovely day, he thinks, and the people love him as he loves them. He places his hand at the broken wrist of the woman baker and she cries for her pain is healed and her fingers can finally move. He recites a psalm for the suffering and the boy with the purple lips and heaving cough recovers the poppy on his cheeks and his father kneels to Javier with eternal gratitude. A hunchback covered completely in black walks to him and everyone flees with fear of her consumption. He takes her into his arms instead and with each prayer, the crone straightens her posture and the leper blotches disappear from her eyes and face, her joviality once again part of her.

Saint Javier, a man of miracles, disciple of God, worshipped by all.

‘One last gift for you, saint Javier, our savior and protector.’ A man approaches him but he is surprised by how similar they look like. Hazelnut curled hair and chestnut eyes, the same almond stubble and the marble Adam’s apple. ‘What is your name, young man?’, he asks curious of his twin. ‘Javier. Named after the saint.’ The same name and the same voice and he stares at the image of the man who was he but also not him at the same time.

‘One last gift for you, saint Javier,’ the impostor repeats again and from his hands hidden behind his back he lifts a wreath of dry twigs. ‘A crown for the Javier who is the saint,’ the circlet of thorns cut through the skin of his scalp to his forehead, thin trails of blood running down his eyelids, fogging his vision in crimson. The other Javier laughs and claps at him and all the townsfolk follow his lead, each of them pressing the thorns further into his flesh.

‘Saint Javier!’, they chant in unison, ‘we love you, saint Javier, we love you to death.’

 

 

Javier opens his eyes as a shallow gasp escapes his throat. The ceiling of his bedroom is white in the dimly lit partition except for a few moldy stains that resemble stars more and the air is thick with the apprehension of the morning silence. He raises his hand to his drenched forehead, touching it thoroughly from temple to temple, finding nothing sharp embedded nor the barbs of the garland. His fingertips are wet but it is not red that he sees and the sweat tastes rather salty and not of oxidized iron. He sighs of relief, chuckling at his own stupidity.

It was all a nightmare. Just a dream, a bad dream that anyone could have had, isn’t it?

Javier looks at the alarm clock on the night stand, 5:49 am, still too early to unroll the day but sleep doesn’t welcome him anymore even when he closes his eyes. The priest chooses to get up, for once he the one inviting dawn to his house on a cold winter matinee. As he sits by the bed, his elbows propelling his torso up, Effie almost falls to the floor together with the sliding duvet. The kitten has been sleeping on his navel and he catches her on time from the steep dive.

‘Here you go, little princess.’ Her petite claws hold to the open collars of Javier’s pajamas, almost plucking out a button, and he pats her small head, between the ears, until she starts purring. ‘Do you like your name, Effie?’ She nudges closer to his exposed chest, her damp pink nose right on top of his sternum. It is sophisticatedly ticklish the way she tries to push further and further into his heart.

Javier runs his hand through her calico coat, of coffee and mocha spots on white chocolate fur. A stray cat that had found her way to the church. One of the two stray cats that had come to church in the last month. He shakes his head, dispersing the images of the young man with black hair, darker than the night, and he places Effie on the pillow next to his as he goes to shower. The warm water soothes his stiff muscles from his bad sleeping posture, the droplets washing away the lemon scented foam from his body. His own reflection at the mirror mimics all his movements, the gargling to clear the toothpaste and the careful shaving to not cut himself. The other ‘Javier’ copies everything he does with no lag in time and the exact same choreography.

‘It was just a dream.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘You must be too tired, Javier.’

He scoops a couple spoons of the instant coffee to his mug, one extra for the caffeine rush (his harmless sin), just a packet of brown sugar, and he pours the hot water just as Effie crawls to his ankle, scratching the protruding bone. Her meows are high-pitched pleas and Javier nods, fetching a bowl in his kitchen cupboard.

‘I only have full cream so you can’t complain.’

The kitten licks the dairy drink with a desperate speed, a few drops spilling to the tiled floor while she cleans the bottom of the dish with her sandpaper tongue with abandon. He crouches next to her, offering the last serving from the cartoon, but the infant cat bites him in the thumb when he tries to rub her chin. The pointy canines break into his skin but it is only a sharp sting that runs up his arm.

The same jolt from when he touched Yuzuru’s lips during baptism.

Javier retrieves his hand immediately, back to the counter, and he takes a sip of his dark, pungent brew. The coffee is suddenly too bitter and he chokes at its astringency. He leaves the whole cup in the sink untouched and fixes a glass of water instead.

Holy water in his forehead, his chest, his lips. In name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

‘What is wrong with you, Javier?’

Effie finishes her breakfast and she makes a slot on the sofa her new nest, her tail waving her owner ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’.

 

 

The children of the choir chat merrily amongst themselves as Yuzuru pretends to be a stern maestro and points to the highlighted passages they are supposed to sing for the soon to begin Sunday mass and for them to ignore the checkered ones. He pretends to be a robot going short-circuit when the shouts and laughter become too loud and he slumps immediately onto the floor, his batteries drained. The children all run to him for a collective hug and they apologize for their naughtiness. The young man gives each one of them a light, affectionate slap on their bottoms as they return to their assigned rows, and he gives himself one too for last, a shocked face at his gesture, earning even more giggles than before.

‘Why don’t you join us this time, Yuzu?’ Maya fixes the red ribbon at her silver hair.

Alex nods energetically. ‘Yes! Like you did in New Year.’

Javier notices how the relaxed smile on Yuzuru’s face is immediately replaced by the resigned, pitiful one, and how the creases around the corner of his eyes are even more prominent for the fake elated gaze. There is a tiredness that surrounds him, a fatigue that paints a faint shadow underneath his pupils and that pushes his shoulders forward into an arched stance.

‘He can’t join you because he will be helping me today.’

The priest walks into the sanctuary, his steps firm but not too heavy. Yuzuru is startled by his call but he nods in an acknowledging greeting.

‘Were you spying on us again, Father Javier?’ Alex crosses his arms in a precocious mature flare, prompting some of the other kids to follow him.

‘Can’t I hear my angels practice whenever I want?’

‘No, you cannot.’ Maya stomps her feet, also imitating the adult she is not. ‘Yuzuru says he wants this to be a surprise for you.’

‘Maya–’, the young man tries to stop her but the girl with the grey hair continues.

‘We should perform something different each time so Father Javier will always be happy, isn’t it Yuzu?’

He nods in agreement, his shy gaze hidden by the long lashes and his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his plain navy blue shirt.

‘Okay,’ Javier raises his hands in defeat, ‘next time I will behave and I will wait for yours and Yuzuru’s scheming mystery.’

‘Call him Yuzu, Father Javier.’ The shortest of all the children shouts.

‘Yes, Yuzu, Yuzu, Yuzu. We all call him Yuzu.’

Yuzu, like a short, quick prayer that reaches God directly. Yuzu, like the Hallelujah that begins all hymns and the Amen finishes all carols.

‘Now, now,’ the young man claps his hands drawing all the attention to him, ‘let’s stop molesting Father Javier. It’s time for the last trip to the restrooms if you need.’ He fixes the bow knot on Alex’s collar. ‘And where are your candles? Didn’t we say we wanted to be shooting stars today?’

‘Yes sir!’ The choir is as synchronized as possible.

‘And there are cake leftovers from yesterday.’ The priest points at their catechism room on the side aisle. ‘There is still time for a bite.’

‘YAY!’ The children dash down the steps in a sugar-driven frenzy.

‘No running in the church!’

Yuzuru’s warning is but words lost in the wind as the commotion disappears (although in a marching pace) to their expecting treat. He picks up a few of the forgotten bound notebooks of songs on the floor, the crucifix of the rosary at his neck bouncing on his chest, on the same spot where Javier had drawn the baptism mark.

‘Can I have one too, Father Javier?’

‘What?’ Javier helps him carrying the books back to the inner chamber.

‘Cake. The ones from the L’s bakery are the best.’

‘Of course. Of course, Yuzuru. There are strawberry and vanilla. You can choose the one you like better.’

The young man bites his lips in a sheepish smirk, almost twirling at the balls of his feet. ‘Both. I like both.’ He opens his mouth to say something, just anything, but he swallows the phrase and he turns to leave.

‘Wait.’ The call echoes in the walls of the room. ‘Won’t you help me today during the service? Father Daniil is away for, hmm, clerical duties. Just until he is back.’

‘I’m sorry. I…’ Yuzuru shakes his head as he tucks a strand of his dark hair behind his ears. ‘… I’m not the right person. They will talk… you will be–’, his speech is too fast and jumbled, the same way he would do when he was anxious, an almost imperceptible quiver on his shoulders, ‘… I don’t know what to do for the ceremony.’

‘Yuzuru,’ Javier repeats his name with patience until the other man looks at him, ‘you are a child of this church. You are baptized.’

‘I know.’ He gently brings his crucifix, the silver plain cross to his forehead and heart, brushing for last his lips in a chaste kiss. ‘I know. I just…’, he takes a deep inhalation, nodding as he bites his lower lip, ‘… you are so bad, Father Javier.’

They both laugh, especially Yuzuru, with the same tenor voice that took the reins of his attention, liberating and joyful, like a running stream down the stained glass during a storm, strong and demanding but delicate, a plucked petal blown by a flute.

‘I don’t have–’, the young man points at himself, at his own attire, shirt and worn jeans, ‘this is barely appropriate.’

Javier roams through the small wardrobe in the corner, bypassing the green and purple stoles and shawls, and he pulls out a long-sleeved, white alb with only a gold cross embroidered in the chest. ‘Here,’ he offers the vestment to Yuzuru, ‘Father Daniil is probably not much taller than you are.’

‘I wouldn’t dare to wear it.’

‘I don’t think he would mind.’ A moment of hesitancy before the two of them take a step forward simultaneously. ‘Please.’

It is uncannily similar to Effie’s clumsiness the way Yuzuru tries to put the white robe on. The equal feline agility when contorting into the most challenging positions with the paws (hands) in order for the elbows to find the proper padded angle and the wriggling of hips (minus the tail) as the cotton garment slides down, halting at the knees.

Javier watches amusingly the awkward battle between that stray cat and the alb, the clerical vestment too loose, and Yuzuru’s confused grimace at the mirror as he tries to make the knot with the braided silk strip.

‘Let me.’ The priest stands behind his newly appointed altar boy, his hands catching the two ends of the sash and tying them in a secure but comfortable loop. Even through layers of the clothes, Javier can trace Yuzuru’s waist and the valleys between the vertebrae on his back. He is so slender he could easily fit into his embrace. He almost does it just to see if stray cats are really as fragile as they suggest.

He almost does it just to feel how it would be to have Yuzuru leaning and falling into him, his whole weight in a free fall, depending completely on him.

‘Father Javier? Is there anything wrong? I look bad, don’t I? I should change back.’

‘No.’ They both look at their reflections, a pair of obsidians staring at the almond irises. ‘You look…’ The contrast between the day saturated in the alb and the night drenched hair has Javier breathing slightly, just slightly, heavier. ‘… you look beautiful, Yuzuru.’

The young man drops his gaze to his feet, a dim rose creeping on his cheeks and ears. ‘You can call me Yuzu. Like the children said. Yuzu is fine, Father Javier.’

Yuzu.

Even under the mantles of cotton, the rosaries of both men seem to be burning against their skin.

_Yuzu._

‘Only if you call me Javi too. Javi is fine.’

Yuzu nods, closing his eyes and smiling playfully.

‘Father _Javi_.’


	2. The Forbidden Fruit Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of a part-time altar boy, strawberry cake and non-expiring contracts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, this chapter is sort of a direct continuation of the events of the last one (not somehow a few days ahead I mean). It was supposed to be posted together but I find this pace more fitting. Pardon me for my liberties. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: work of FICTION! We are not trying to make a comment on religion. Art for art's sake.

The children of the choir initiate the Sunday mass with their cherubic rendition of a psalm welcoming all to the house of the Lord. The tealight candles on their hands are dim but the cream glow travelling in the sanctuary as they flutter their arms aloft draws a myriad of shooting stars among them, ones that illuminate the souls of the faithful and never fade. Yuzuru spies on them from the open gap of the inner chambers and he too waves his hands in the same rhythm, albeit more contained and to himself only. He almost runs outside when Maya misses a step on her row but she winks at him, telling him her ankle is fine and that she is not hurt.

‘You should join them, Yuzuru.’ Javier adjusts the carmine stole around his neck while amusing himself at the sight of his altar boy’s hyperactive feet. ‘ _Yuzu_.’ He corrects the name, honoring the secret only shared by them. Or so he thinks.

‘I have to let them fly one day. Besides,’ the young man stirs away from the door, pressing his palm right onto the crucifix of his rosary, ‘you need me today, don’t you, Father Javi?’

Today, the weekly masses, the festive days, the holidays on the calendar, he might just need him beyond the transient hour that will soon end.

‘Yes,’ the priest nods, he too clutching at his cross, ‘I need you by my side.’ There is a moment of silence, a delicate balanced veil hanging above their heads that is being topped over as the rosewood beads are pressed against the pulse on his wrist. ‘Your help. I… I mean–’, the other man breaks into giggles and he sighs in the same relief, ‘I need your help today.’

‘Of course.’ Javier wonders if the children have seen the same genuine smile adorning Yuzuru’s face as he does now. ‘Of course, Father Javi. I won’t say no to you.’

The murmurs at the nave are expectedly loud when Javier greets the audience with his opening prayer. The young man’s posture too stiffens almost automatically, his silhouette recoiling in his own shadow. Less, he wants to be less, until all his bones are curled together and he so thin that no one will be able to find him among the crowd. He looks forward, not to the people, but at the emptiness between them. It is Alex who hauls Yuzuru to the lectern, the two of them sharing the first and the second readings. His voice is as beautiful as when he sings, Javier thinks, even when the resonance of the microphone disrupts that eloquence, and yet, it is laced with a reserved unease, almost palpable. Like the shudder on his altar boy’s fingers when he holds the book of Gospel so the priest can bless the marked pages.

During the sermon, ‘a good soil is one that absorbs water from the rain and let it flows through it to the underground, not greedy and insatiable that it floods but porous and therefore sharing the moisture with all that it surrounds’, the townsfolk are divided among their enthusiastic affirmations and the piercing stares. Yuzuru is sitting with the children and he dares not to meet the gazes of the whispering eyes, Javier notices, scolding quietly (and teasingly) instead the choir for being too jittery. Maybe he should have chosen another message to partake but the dark-haired assistant reassures him that ‘a good soil also needs a good farmer who can tend it for the seeds to come’.

‘Let’s go together for the host, Yuzuru!’ Maya holds the young man by the arm but he shakes his head.

‘You and Alex should line up after this song.’

‘But I want Yuzu to walk me down the aisle!’

‘One day,’ he chuckles at her pouting caricature, ‘I will be waiting for you with Father Javier in the altar for now.’

‘Will you wait for me in the future?’ Her silver ponytail almost flicks on his chest as she turns abruptly, looking for more of them to receive communion.

‘Yes, yes.’ He shoves her shoulder gently to dispel any more questions. ‘Or there will be no more wafers left when you come back.’

At the Eucharist session, Javier wonders why the town people refuse to return to their seats from the left side, where Yuzuru stands, even if they have to walk a longer itinerary. Whether his altar boy bows deeper, out of courtesy and politeness, he doesn’t know, but the remnants of sorrow on his pupils haunts the priest in its purity that he wants to carve them out so he could see that glimmer of hope beneath them, the same one when he baptized him.

When Javier touched Yuzuru for the first time.

The recurrent presences for the final farewell wishes flock around the priest as bees are drawn to blossoming flowers, the pollen within their grasp and the stinger to threaten any predator. The young man wipes the ceremonial chalices and he places them back in the tabernacle. The ‘high five’ claps with the children as the choir accomplishes their mission echoes in the stained-glass panels and the assembly of ‘Yes, Sir!’ is becoming a jingle on the priest’s ears (just as Yuzuru’s ‘I already told you not to call me that!’).

‘Aren’t the children lively?’ The librarian of the town smiles although she taps her foot on the carpeted floor.

‘Too excited I would say. This is a solemn house for respect and worship.’

The retired banker, still coughing out of habit from his recently cured pneumonia, agrees. ‘Discipline is what they need. And what _that_ boy has not learned yet after all these years.’

‘They are just children.’ Javier laughs when he sees Mace, the shortest of them all, hiding behind the altar boy’s back, covered by the slightly oversized alb, as Alex tries to catch him, hugging Yuzuru’s waist in the process, which inadvertently also tickles him into a sharp, falsetto shriek.

‘That’s why they need to learn manners as soon as possible.’

‘Or they will be led by the devil in no time.'

‘Father Javier,’ he doesn’t remember her name, except that she is one of the kindergarten teachers in town, ‘I see that you still haven’t found the ideal assistant for service. My two twins at home, they couldn’t come today because I couldn’t deprive them of the chance to go skiing with their grandmother, you know, she was insisting on a cruise ship but that was too dangerous so we all opt for snow.’

‘Yes,’ the banker nods repeatedly like a machine, ‘broaden their horizons and gain life experience. Your mother-in-law is such a thoughtful lady.’

‘Thank you, Mr. D., may God bless you.’ She returns to the priest. ‘They will be taking their first communion this coming Spring, so would you like to consider them, Father? They are very reliable kids and I assure you can trust them more than _that_ boy, who is always–’

‘Madam,’ it is not Javier that interrupts her but the bells that struck the twelve chimes of noon, ‘I am very grateful for your care for this church, as all of you do,’ he raises his palms, sweeping across the semicircle of their gazes, ‘but I can’t think of any other person more suitable than Yuzuru.’

When the priest instinctively searches for the sanctuary in the reverberating notes of the brass bells, all the children had already left, including Yuzuru, not a trace of the vision in white left behind.

 

 

Will stray cats ever find a home, Javier thinks, as he is finally free from more ‘advice’ on promoting the harmony of his own parish, with a side reminder on keeping pets on a leash. There is a certain relief for the advent of silence but also a dread that anchors in him when the cold draft from the entrance blows off a few of the candles in the offering corner, the trail of residual smoke disappearing in mere seconds.

A sigh of relief, an almost silent gasp leaves his mouth as he finds his altar boy in the inner chambers, sitting on the floor, the alb already draped over the priest’s chair. Yuzuru leans over the wall, knees drawn to his chest and his head resting on them.

‘Hey.’

He regrets the stupid monotone as he notices how the young man has his eyes closed, long lashes hidden behind a particularly unruly black lock of hair, darker than the night, over his forehead. The feeble whistling from the parted crimson lips as Yuzuru sleeps are notes on the piano he plays, and Javier sits next to him, staring at the serenity of his dream for a few minutes. He looks so small, like his waist, but not a toddler nor a child. The priest reaches his hand to brush away that fringe, touching the same spot where he had drawn the cross of wisdom during baptism.

If stray cats wander aimlessly in this life, how much solitude do they have to endure until the next one?

‘ _Father_?’ Yuzuru twitches from the swift onset of light. ‘Father Javi?’

He pulls back his hand immediately, suddenly too aware of how close they are. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you up.’ He stands up, walking to the table while pretending he had just arrived at the room. ‘Here, I don’t know which one you wanted so I brought you both.’

The young man arches his back and stretches his arms and legs with a satisfied groan, not a cat anymore but a lynx out of slumber, and the instant gleam on his pupils as he sees the slices of cake induce a roar of laughter in Javier.

‘Can I have them?’

‘Yes, as a token of gratitude for helping me today.’

The miniature fork and knife are ignored as Yuzuru ponders for a second before diving his finger on the vanilla cream, scooping a dollop and popping it into his mouth without hesitation. He sucks his digit with the utmost bliss, the sweetness sliding down his throat, the smoothness coating his palate.

Javier swallows dry as he can’t help but stare at the glimpse of the tip of his pink tongue running over the nail and the altar boy seems to notice the fixed sight on him. His cheeks heat in the same shade of the strawberry on the other treat.

‘Try it, Father Javi.’ Yuzuru picks up the berry, holding it between his index and thumb, and he extends to the priest. ‘Just a little.’

_The path to faith is laid with forbidden fruits._

Javier’s feet are lead and they are stuck on the floor, unable to move. He doesn’t know which will is guiding him but he leans forward, the spasm of his impulse hammering his ribcage. He takes a slight bite on the strawberry, avoiding touching the young man’s fingers, their gazes unwavering and fastened on each other.

‘Sweet?’ Yuzuru finishes the other half of the fruit.

‘Very.’ He doesn’t chew and gobbles the entire piece down, almost choking at the size.

What if stray cats were devils in disguise?

‘You are a very strange priest, Father Javi.’ The young man finishes the dessert with a record speed, still savoring the honeyed taste, and he smirks as he sees the confused frown.

‘Why?’

‘You care too much about this.’ He opens his arms, twirling on the spot. ‘All this. The church. The town. The people here. Everything.’

Javier nods, proud of the weight of the crucifix on his heart. ‘It’s my service. My own calling.’

‘Father Daniil says the same.’

‘Do you…’, the priest grabs the alb and hangs it back to the wardrobe, an inexplicable urge to see the garment away from their line of sight, ‘have you known Father Daniil for a long time?’

‘Some. He too would let me stay in the church.’ The dance stops and Yuzuru loses balance for a brief moment, from the concentric circles that makes him dizzy.

Maybe the young man is a mystery for him only. The children, Alex, Maya, Effie, perhaps he is the only one who doesn’t know Yuzuru at all. He is just a newcomer, a tourist in the town, one who happens to have sheltered two felines. How much does Daniil know? How many times have they talked, here, outside, somewhere? How much has Yuzuru opened to him? He curls his hands into fists, the pressure draining the color from his knuckles.

How much is Yuzuru willing to tell him, Javier, with the name of a saint?

‘But I like your sermons better, Father Javi.’ He shoves his own hands into the pockets of his jeans and he rocks back and forth instead.

‘Which one?’ The strain on his palms is replaced by prickling jolts at his fingertips. ‘Which sermon?’

‘All of them.’ The dark strands fall again over his irises. ‘I like everything you say, Father Javi.’

What if stray cats were fallen angels on their redeeming journey back to Eden?

‘Yuzu,’ Javier’s reflection on the mirror is as skittish as he is, not of apprehension but an anxious confidence, ‘be my acolyte. Not just today or tomorrow or next week. I want–’, _what do you want Javier?_ , ‘won’t you consider it?’

‘Why do you insist? Why do you insist so much?’

‘Because,’ he points at his rosary, ‘it might your calling.’

‘My calling?’, Yuzuru tilts his head to the sides, a gesture between a confirmation and a rejection, a paradox in itself, ‘You will regret it later. Just like all of them.’

‘I won’t.’ There is no vacillation in his voice. ‘I will not.’

The timid smile on Yuzuru’s lips as he takes a deep breath almost conceals the watery veil over his obsidian eyes. ‘How long until you–?’, he looks at the ceiling, counting the number of cracks on the gravel wall, ‘how long is the contract?’

‘As long as you want it.’

‘How about you, Father Javi?’

‘Me?’

The young man nods. ‘How long do you want it to be?’

‘Does it need to have an expiry date?’

‘Yes. All things have.’ Yuzuru draws a cross in the air between them, in the lapse of both their bodies. ‘But maybe not this one.’

‘Not this one.’ Javier feels he can breathe again, the oxygen carrying a sweet aroma, an aftertaste of strawberry.

‘So where do I sign?’

The priest shakes his head. ‘Not a signature.’ He takes off the deep red band around his shoulders and lays it on the table, where the cake was. ‘I need a confession.’


	3. The Confession of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of remembering names, an ancient Egyptian pharaoh queen cat, and an embrace of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, I hope this chapter will be a turning point to the events that are there to come and there more is shed on the humanity of the characters. Again, this is not a commentary on religion. Religion is instead a driving theme for the plot here. We sincerely thank your support for this story ^^
> 
> Disclaimer: this is a work of FICTION! Art for art's sake.

The gold pendulum of the brass bells swings in the divergent tempo of the different hymns and he is chanting them under his breath as his feet bring him in the procession of hydrangea blossoms on the concrete ground, petals of light mauve on his toes, white on his ankles, and azure flowers tickling his soles. _How Great Thou Art_ , he hums but the people perched on the railings of their wooden carved windows shake their heads, the long tresses of the women almost on the streets and the vigor of the muscles of the farmers of wheat secure their toddlers from tumbling. ‘Not the Lord we praise today but you saint Javier, for today is the day of all saints and you are the king of the saints!’

He bows to their kind words and he waves, modesty on the gesture as he reminds them that He is the one to guide them to the path of the Redeemer and that exalted he should not. ‘Saint Javier has spoken. Heed the words of the wisest!’ It is a festive day and he delights in the jubilant laughter of the little ones dressed as lambs and angels, mirth on their heads and curious eyes on their way to His house and kingdom.

He too remembers how he has a choir of the same petite children, of a girl with silver dust hair, of the boy with the name of a servant and emperor, of the one whose voice is timid but his sight not. He knows they sing for him, the certainty saturated in each of his steps as he enters the church at the end of the parade. They are all waiting for him, rows of butterfly ribbons on their curled fiery locks, and green satin sashes around the shoulders of the boys.

Javier sits on his usual chair of the shepherd of the parish, his smile gentle and warm, but a feeble tremor on his back perturbs his seemingly serene quietude.

Why can’t he remember the name of the children of his choir?

‘Saint Javi, which is your favorite hosanna?’ The chubbiest of them all pulls his leg in an impish hurl. ‘I know! I know!’ The infant of the red tie sits on the carpeted floor besides him. ‘ _Adeste Fideles_. Everyone knows this.’ He opens his arms to envelop all the children in his embrace, one that extends beyond the walls of stained glass. ‘How do you know?’ It’s the same choir, exactly the same velvet encased booklets of songs and the braided bookmark at the margins, but their faces are not the ones he recognizes. None of them.

‘He told us, Saint Javier! He thinks of you in every key of the organ. That’s when he plays his best.’ The whole ensemble nods in unison. ‘Who is he?’ The grey-maned girl points at the standing figure in the sanctuary, all dressed in white of the alb and tassels of platinum dangling from his slender waist. It is too far and only the svelte silhouette is photographed by his vision. ‘He, saint Javier, the one who serves you and no one else. The one who belongs to you.’

‘Only me?’

The kids dive into their own version of hopscotch behind the altar and they hail him, a name he can’t hear, perhaps too short or impossibly long. _He_ walks towards where he is seated, the rays of sun penetrating through the patterned glass and painting him with a glimmer of metal and pastel, of teal of spring time streams on his elbows and juniper green on his collar. His hair, of the night, it never lightens.

‘Saint Javier, have you called me?’ The kaleidoscope acolyte sits on his lap, hands gripping his shoulders so he won’t lose balance. ‘The children said you wanted to hear your song.’ It is too intense the luminescence of the morning star reflected on the other’s rosary upon him and he can barely open his eyes. The voice though, he does not dare to mistake it. It is that of an angel waiting for His grace to return to Eden. Javier matches his heartbeat with each exalted note, bliss from his lips that threatens to spill. Perhaps his wings too cannot be contained and he slips slowly on his thighs, almost falling.

It is just to save him from a plummeted lapse but his hand reaches for his knee, applying just the slightest pressure so he is safe. His open palm bracing the bones and cartilage that even through the cotton garment, it trembles from the touch. The young man shudders under his fingertips and he urges just a little higher, soft firmness, delineating the inner thigh until a breathy moan echoes in the walls of the church.

Javier recognizes the voice. It’s his own.

 

 

The gelid water from the blue tap of his basin runs free as he stares at his own face in the bathroom mirror, almond eyes meeting chestnut ones, his insomnia defeated pupils rivaling the restlessness of the irises of his twin. He takes a deep breath, three seconds, maybe more, and the razor in his hand prune another streak up his cheek, down to his jaw, the white cream dissolving in the poodle of trimmed hairs by the sink. Javier is mentally naming all the children of the Sunday service with a renewed obsession to prove he is a holy man worthy of his title. There is Maya with her lioness argent mane, Alex and his occasional lisp when too nervous, Adela, the bashful songstress who writes with numbers and not letters, Mace, their youngest maverick who is never late, Lena, Tallulah, Hyacinthe, Cass, Yago.

There isn’t a name he can’t remember. It was all a dream.

Just like the boy with dark hair and out of the glass panes, the acolyte in pristine white who sang with a cherub’s blessing and walking as if levitating in feathers. Javier can still feel the weight of that angel on his lap, lying on his thighs, balancing on his hamstrings, almost as if he was…

… _Yuzuru_.

The priest jumps backwards, his ankle hitting the bathtub and he almost falls into it when Effie suddenly hops to his knee and treks her ascending way through his limbs, until he she sits majestically by the edge of the basin countertop. He is not agile enough to snatch away the shaving foam and the kitten, a few inches larger already, licks the lemongrass scented paste. Her fur rises immediately like porcupine needles and her whimsical tail misses the pressurized can for just a few millimeters as she tries to sweep it to the floor.

‘Don’t look at me like that.’ Javier laughs at the consternation in her spot disguised eyes. He washes the remnants of soap on his face and he pats dry with the nearest towel. ‘It’s your own fault for wanting to eat anything and everything. I told you before this was not Chantilly cream.’

Vanilla cream filling and covering a slice of cake, a strawberry on top, a finger that scoops it like a child stealing a premature taste and a tongue that lavishes on the saccharine treat. He shakes his head, dispersing this silly thought, foolish of him to think that all stray cats were the same.

It is early morning, the matinée warmer than yesterday and the streets are slowly regained the congestion after hours of slumber. The newspaper boy is sick, the baker tells him as he brings him the freshest baguettes just out of the oven and two bottles of milk from the farm of his family.

‘How’s the wooly lad? Better be careful, Father Javier, the cold came to stay.’

Effie nests by the cushions of the sofa, curled into a ball and barely touching her breakfast, the white drink ignored in her bowl and the canned tuna already dried. Her owner’s coffee is already finished when he lifts her to his arms, fondling the belly the way she would be lullabied to sleep. The television is on the local news channel, the coverage of an assault at the primary school, a second-year girl stabbed with a pencil by an envious peer, receiving all the limelight.

‘It was no case of bullying.’ Javier recognizes the same teacher that comes to church every week. ‘Children are sometimes too excited when they play and accidents happen.’ The banker too and his all-seeking love for gossip. ‘The boy had no intention to hurt her. Principal Hanyu is a decent man who honors discipline with his utmost dedication.’ The fishmonger is not the only one who praises the school’s head, the priest notices.

‘Principal Hanyu is a man of honor.’

‘Our community owns a lot to the sacrifices from Principal Hanyu. May God help his soul for the ungrateful son he has.’

‘I can’t imagine his burden and the humiliation that he must suffer because of the delinquent boy he has raised.’

Javier sometimes wonder if Effie is actually a human trapped in the body of a petite feline when she escapes from his grasp and lands on the glass coffee table, right on top of the remote control, the impact of her paws switching off the TV set. It is probably just his imagination because the kitten keeps scratching her neck and the back of her ears, her movements frenzied and she meows with a pained plea, the third time this week.

‘C’mon, my princess. Let’s go to a doctor before you pull out your own head.’

 

 

It wasn’t a lie when his fellow cleric of the same parish told him that this was a dogville, a town of canine breeders, large rescuers like the black Labrador that sits across them, and those of miniature stature, like the Beagle trying to steal a whisker from Effie. She is unafraid though, and as she puffs her chest like an ancient Egyptian pharaoh queen, her dominating stance has the puppy hiding his nose behind the legs of his owner.

‘Why are you so feisty today, Effie?’ The cat almost looks offended with the accusation and she walks around the waiting area, her dignified fashionista stroll earning all the attention from the leashed pets.

‘Did you hear the news this morning?’ The rumbling of the two housewives in the corner is louder than the giggles of the uniformed high school girls who pamper the calico kitten with their manicured hands.

‘I did. And I saw him last night too.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes! In that black car with a horse in front. He is always surrounded by all these vagabonds, much older than he is, and he pays them.’

Javier is not eavesdropping but by now, all the people in the lobby, including the triage nurse, are pretending not to listen while their nostrils flare for more details of the calumnious chronicle. It is the name that catches the priest attention, each syllable branding a page on his memory.

‘Yuzuru wasn’t like this.’

‘He is! His father works so much so he can splurge it all at night. And with other men especially.’

‘I can’t believe this.’

‘Don’t you remember when he was…’

The announcement from the speaker asking for _Javier Fernández_ and _little Effie_ to see Dr. Chan in examination room three distracts him from the remaining folk tale of his altar boy, or another person with the same name. Perhaps it is the latter option and he picks up his phonily meek cat from the spoiled caresses, the women still chattering and insinuating things he cares not to know from their constrained gestures.

Javier sometimes too wonders if his growing lynx aspires to be an actress, one that could win the appraised Oscar for best deception, as she now lies in the observation table, obeying all the commands from the veterinarian (a foreigner to town most likely), letting the gloved hands grope all her body without fighting back or gnawing a finger off, and tamely accepting the syringe that prickles through her back leg.

‘Where did you find this gem?’ Dr. Chan finally removes his face mask and his words are much clearer.

‘She came to church by herself. Someone must have abandoned her.’ If she was deserted by a lair, who had forsaken _him_? ‘Is there anything wrong with her? She seems too fidgety lately and always aiming at my dinners instead of her own.’

‘Poor button.’ The vet offers a vitamin tablet concealed into a square piece of processed meat. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just growing pains and adapting to a new home. But you can’t spoil her, Father Javier.’ His clerical collar gives away his profession immediately. ‘Cats are very manipulative and scheming pets.’

Javier refuses to believe so, that stray cats thrive in deceit and treachery, as he walks out of the clinic.

 

 

‘I really missed her.’ Javier reclines onto the worn leather seat, a few tears on the base and luster gone but it is as comfortable as he remembers.

‘Hands off, my friend. You’re not getting a chance with this one.’ The light-haired priest has his gaze locked on the road, a blue rectangle for one-way traffic, the triangle of loss of priority and finally the large capitalized STOP daubed on the asphalt. He looks extremely tired, wrinkles of fatigue on the corner of his eyes and shaded bags under them. He massages the bridge of his nose, the patch of skin right between the brows, before returning his hands to the steering wheel and advancing with the green light permission in direction of the sunset. ‘Brian still hasn’t forgiven you for almost running into his Japanese camelias.’

‘We were probably drunk that time.’

‘ _You_ were drunk, Javier. Not me.’

‘Oh? What did you have that night then? A glass of water with a few drops of undiluted ethyl alcohol?’

‘Let’s say I was conscientiously challenged that evening.’

They both giggle through the boring radio cast of a cloudy sky with a large possibility of weak showers, Javier rotating the crank handle so the window is completely receded. Daniil is not driving fast but the assaulting breeze dishevel the hazelnut locks of the other man, along with a coat of dust and salt from their adjacency to the sea. The monotonous narration on the speakers is replaced by a rock ballad and both priests fall silent at the sound of it, each one lip-syncing to the verses.

_I got my first real six string. Bought it at the five and dime. Played it ‘til my fingers bled. Was the Summer of ‘69. Me and some guys from school, had a band we tried real hard. Jimmy quit and Jody got married, I should’ve known we’d never get far._

‘Raya did quit, didn’t he?’

Javier nods. ‘He always loved the army more. Did you see him when…’, he doesn’t finish the question, his head still nodding in concession.

‘Celibacy was never going to be possible for his loaded shotgun.’

Daniil smirks and he feels compelled to do the same, even when a shiver spikes on his knee and up his spine at the mention of their chastity vow. He turns the volume louder, hoping that it would dispel the excessive electric charge in him.

_Standin' on your mama's porch, you told me that you'd wait forever. Oh, and when you held my hand, I knew that it was now or never. Those were the best days of my life._

‘What an inappropriate song for the season.’ The blond priest stretches his legs at another timed intersection, a yawn forging on his mouth. ‘But _that_ was definitely a great summer.’

‘What are we doing? A trip to reminisce the good old days because we are already retiring and you are bald?’ The breeze morphs into sharpened gusts and an edge is caught in his throat, making him cough a few times.

‘How far did you go back then?’ Daniil parks at the berm of a few recently built cottages, the real estate panels still fixed on the empty mail boxes. ‘Did you leap to the precipice?’

Javier shrinks in his own silhouette, hands rubbing the denim between his thighs, knuckles tilting between the valleys of his fingers and the phalanges. He bites his lower lip, saliva coating the abused skin. ‘What do they want to know, Reverend Gleichengauz?’

‘I could care less about them.’ He switches off the engine, the music on the radio dying instantly. ‘It’s just between the two of us, Venerable Fernández.’

‘It was just a kiss. One. Nothing more. I took the vows.’

A kiss with a gypsy dancer that once came to the seminar when they were still in training. It was the earliest days when the ambulant circus would travel to different towns and the affection of her orange lips on his was as nomadic as a grain of sand skipping from dune to dune. There was once too a minute, or less, of effervescent testosterone that had he and a hockey player colliding to the walls of the changing rooms in the ice rink that he once went. It was just pure curiosity, and the cuts on his ego from the falls on the ice soon opened a drift between their mouths too.

Nothing. Nothing has ever happened. Never a second glance to the pale complexion and supernova eyes. Never a thin waist and baptized crosses on the chest and…

‘Let’s go for a walk.’ Daniil smiles apologetically as he gives a pat of unspoken understanding on his knees. ‘I’m getting a cramp on my butt.’

The sun is almost down in the ripples of the ocean by the time they sit near the point break of the waves, the tide not high enough to wet them except for the saline and algae foam that gingerly grazes their toes. Their only company are a couple of diagonal hermit crabs and washed ashore infant turtles. The taller priest fetches a packet of cigarettes from the back pocket of his pants but Javier refuses the white stick.

‘I’ve quit them.’

‘Before you came here?’

He nods affirmatively, offering to light one instead. The flickering flame is blown out by the wind a few times before the embers catches the paper. Daniil doesn’t take a drag though and he plants the cigarette into the sand, the trail of smoke donated for whoever wanted it, just like how they used to do when they first started the habit. A beginning to celebrate an end. It is a rather weak one this brand and the aroma of dried tobacco leaves is almost imperceptible.

‘I suppose you have good news.’ Another wave and a platter of carmine seaweed reaches their feet.

‘Bishop Brian wants to come.’

‘Why? Doesn’t he trust you?’

‘He does. He trusts you too.’ Daniil navigates his palm through the tiny particles of quartz and broken shells. He catches a perfectly polished pebble and he throws it at the sea, the ocean promptly eating it with gusto. ‘There has been word of you taking an acolyte who is not part of our family.’

‘Yuzuru is baptized.’ He presses the crucifix of his rosary to his chest. ‘I did it myself. Just he, I and God. Did they want witnesses?’ He has raised his voice slightly without even noticing it.

‘No. Everything is fine. I don’t doubt you.’

‘But they do.’

‘This is a small town, Javier.’ The blond male takes a deep breath and shakes his head, swallowing the string of letters to be told. ‘It’s just a short visit. The usual coffee and dinner, our wrinkled cassocks and more bibles on the communal shelves. It won’t be the last time, you know it.’

He shakes his shoulders, resigned to his fate. ‘When will they come?’

‘In two weeks. By the time for the Washing of Feet.’ The priest stands and slaps away the damp sand clinging to his shirt and pants. The cigarette is almost completely consumed. ‘Wait for me. I need to take a pee.’ And he walks away in direction of the cartoon caricature of a man.

Javier sprawls onto the bed of silica, his limbs brushing the sand in circles, making himself a rendition of da Vinci’s _Vitruviano_. Night has not yet conquered dusk but the sky is already adorned with the moon’s waning scythe and the tapestry of stars that perseveres from the horizon until…

… until he leans his head backwards in a painful angle for his neck and the shadow of a dark-haired boy materializes in his line of sight. He sits immediately, the vaulting of his torso and hips hurting him as well, and he curses under his ragged breath. The young man stays by the benches without walking down to the beach and he too doesn’t seem to notice the priest’s comical acrobatic routine to sit straight. He stares into the infinite and the void of nothing but the rumbling of his yell is even louder than the schism of thunder on a storm. It is the same voice Javier always hears when the choir practices for the mass, the sorrow so embedded in the modulation of the shout that it almost brings tears to his eyes.

Javier sometimes seriously wonders if he knows Yuzuru at all. A boy with obsidian irises and dark strands that fall over his eyelashes every time he draws his knees to his chest for a nap in the inner chambers. A boy whom he never sees in town nor during the day, only at twilight when boundaries are blurred and different worlds come to play. He knows he is named Yuzuru, like a fletcher’s longbow that refuses to hunt, the fairness of his songs, and the childish charm for desserts.

The priest almost calls him when another man leaves the silver car halted next to his altar boy, both his hands clutching Yuzuru’s shoulders as he nudges his face to the nape, eliciting a skittish smile from the acolyte. A very brief one before the same pair of hands tickles his sylph waist, pulling him back to the vehicle, the closing of the metallic door hammering on Javier’s temples, together with the murmurs of the ladies at the veterinary clinic, in the most annoying jingle on his brain.

It is his own fingers that Javier drills and buries under the soaked sand, the honed shards of glass, oyster husks and can tabs cutting his skin. It is nothing the nettles on his gut and the tension of his tightly pressed jaws, teeth on teeth, he tells himself, just a physiological reaction to the dropping temperatures with the arrival of the evening. Just like the dryness on his throat and the saliva that refuses to be migrated to his stomach. The prospect of a cigarette is suddenly appealing but he resigns from the idea as Daniil walks back to where he was seated.

‘Is everything okay?’ He nods. ‘Don’t worry, they are just too bored with the fables of Cardinal Button and they probably want some fresh incense.’

Javier fakes a smile as the other man helps him stand up. He swears he can still hear the roar of his altar boy. ‘No, I was just thinking about–’, he hesitates, the images of Yuzuru in the embrace of a stranger flooding his thoughts, ‘cats. I was thinking of cats.’ He blurbs out a monosyllable, short and easy to disguise. ‘Effie has grown quite capricious these past weeks.’

‘You should be careful with that queen.’ The blond cleric is oblivious to his sweaty palms and they resume their pace back to town. ‘Wait until she goes into heat. She will try to get rid of you as soon as she can.’

 

 

It is almost midnight when Javier finally finishes the checking all the accounting records of the congregation since Christmas and he signs the last _Fernández_ over the neat numbers written by his assistant. He closes the large book, almost like an encyclopedia and he locks it in the drawer of his stole. He is ready to leave (the church should not even be open at this time, he reprimands himself), but as he confirms the cinched latches on the side doors, a young man is sitting on the last pew in the nave, the closest to the entrance, almost hidden by the cover of the mezzanine floor.

‘Yuzuru?’

He is jolted awake by the sound of his name, the surprise on his glasses sheltered eyes soon transmuting to relief and paltry tenderness. ‘Father Javier. You’re still here.’

The priest notices the flushed mark on his left cheek, somewhat swollen and lucidly redder. His lower lip too, a pearl of dried vermillion on the corner of his mouth on the same side. He sits next to him, uneasiness on his tongue but Yuzuru retreats until he almost falls to the aisle, demanding the distance to be kept.

‘It’s late, Yuzu. You should be home.’ The twelve chimes on the bells announce the dawn of a new day.

‘I know. I know.’ It is not the yowl at the beach but a sick apology. ‘I just couldn’t sleep and I wanted to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Nothing.’ The ripples of pitiful laughter rip through his chest. ‘Didn’t you want a confession, Father Javi?’

‘Do you want to do it now?’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You can tell Him anything.’ Javier points at them to move to the confessional booth but the young man shakes his head. His posture is static, immutable, shoulders sagged, and he stares at the chandelier on the ceiling. ‘What if He doesn’t want to listen to what I have to say?’

‘He will. He listens to all your sadness and remorse, and also your happiness. Tell Him something good about you.’ The priest brings out his rosary and he encourages his acolyte to do the same.

‘If He rejects me…’, Yuzuru does the sign of the cross on his lips, ‘… will you listen to me instead?’

He nods. ‘I will. Always.’

A stoic stillness installs in the church as Javier initiates the confession ritual and the altar boy replies to the prayer. He taps his nails in a sluggish metronome tempo on the varnished surface of the bench as if each beat was gathering his boldness to finally speak.

‘I… I don’t know how to swim but I love the sea. We used to go together, he and I, on Sundays when he didn’t need to go the school.’ He fiddles with the zipper of his sports jacket for more tenacity. ‘On the first times I always forgot my rod at home but he would never get angry with me and we would just sit on the largest rock. I was the one to put the bait on the hook and when there was fish, we would pull the line together. I once fished a mackerel, so small it was, but he said it was the best mackerel he had ever tried.’ His voice trembles and he pinches his nose, the exhaled air from his lips forming a sunken cadence.

‘Once it was in the mountains. The weather forecast that morning did not mention any snow at all so I only wore my favorite sweater. My mom was very furious that morning but he allowed me to go just like that. We crossed one hill to the other. I would tell him about playing dodgeball with my friends and he was…’, Yuzuru leans forward, his forehead hitting the pew in front of him, ‘… he was proud of me. It started snowing when we were still climbing and I remember that everything was white like a huge cloud of cotton. But I was cold. It was so cold that afternoon. I fell on our way back and I had never cried so much in my life until then.’ He instinctively reaches for his foot, his hand right on top of his Achille’s tendon. ‘I sprained my ankle on a step and it was so painful I thought I would lose my leg. He told me it was alright, that all champions have twisted ankles, and he carried me on his back. His shoulders are very broad, you know? It’s because he needs to protect me, he says. He would always protect me and I just held onto him, tighter and tighter.’

The first tear slides down Yuzuru’s beaten cheek. ‘I love him. I love my dad so much. I love when we sneak out during winter to buy vanilla ice cream, my favorite. I love when we sit by the fireplace just to see the charcoal burn. I love…’

Javier’s body shivers in synchrony with Yuzuru’s and the priest dares not to utter a single word, his role now under his vow of secrecy.

The young man wipes his tears as he continues. ‘I love my dad for he is the kindest man I have ever known but I…’, he takes a deep breath, one that sounds like broken hisses, ‘… I hate him. I hate him so much for _this_! For the pain, for the promises he took and swore but never did. For making me who I am now. I hate him because that is the only way I know to love him!’ The anger in him crumbles and evaporates, like crystals that sublimate into nothing, not even a residual stain. ‘It’s all my fault, I know now. I am the son he wishes he never had.’ It is almost a whisper in that moment, his words in the inevitable denouement. ‘Forgive me _Father_. I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry.’

Yuzuru’s sobs, not just the wails seeping from his crouched, trembling silhouette, but also the laments that bleed from his scars, are muffled by his compacted, scared frame and yet they resonate through the fountain of the baptism and are reiterated by the raindrops at the stained-glass visions. Perhaps stray cats never learn to dwell in the wilderness and they long for a home the most.

At the sight of his acolyte mourning a boulder of guilt that is too large for his crumbling walls, Javier forgets he is the mute heeder and he reaches for Yuzuru. He drapes his arms over his throbbing shoulder blades, where he believes his wings were once before he had lost them. The young man is too afraid of the breaching proximity of their contact, of the vagueness of the gesture, of the pity that he despises, and he pulls away, trashing his fists against the priest’s collarbones.

Javier lets him hit his being if it distracted the altar boy from the blame but he almost slips to the floor and the cleric lifts him to his lap, his hand drawing light circles on his knee. It is not forceful the touch, only gentle and trifling, compassionate in their joined solitude. It is Yuzuru who stops the onslaught of his punches and nudges closer, tentatively, asking for the liberty, until his gushing tears wet and drench the priest’s shirt. These are cold but their bodies are warm, and the silence is comforting in its soothing patience.

Javier’s heart too calms down its arrhythmic pace, no more knocking over his ribcage as the young man’s quivering hiccoughs subside, except for a few bounces of his shoulders. When he finally moves, the stiffness on his elbows and spine stinging him, Yuzuru has already fallen asleep.

Javier wonders if he is dreaming and if he too is in that dream.


	4. Part IV - Sealed in Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of dry crosses on wet lips, a Bishop from above and a service for two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, I promise I won't abuse on the slow burn tag much longer. Real life is very hectic though and time is never in one's fortune so I hope to be able to come to this fic more often. Thanks for understanding. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of FICTION. In no ways we are making a commentary on religion.

_‘I tried Father Javi, I really tried. I tried to be the boy worthy of the crest of his school. In the mornings I was always the first one waiting at the door so he wouldn’t be late and the books of calligraphy, I completed them all until there was no more ink and I would secretly buy more at lunch time the next day. I tried to be everything he wanted me to be, the pivot in the relay races, the prefect of the class, falling without crying.’_

Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh in His kingdom.

_‘Maybe I’m wrong. I am wrong to think I was good enough to deserve his name. It is my arrogance that he wants to teach me and I see it now. It is I the one who never really understood him. Maybe I never understood myself and I blamed him. I blamed him and I hated him. Is there any forgiveness for me?’_

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them! He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.

The brown leather-bound bible slips from Javier’s hands just as he finishes reading the psalm of filial love, the book small, the same size of his open palm but thick and abruptly heavy, and it falls to the tiled floor. A few pages of the last chapters are loosened and the priest sighs as he crouches to pick them up. Confessions are monologues that he has license to eavesdrop, and yet, did _his_ pleas really reach to Him?

Yuzuru’s.

Yuzuru’s voice of a reed flute at the kernel of a tempest.

Yuzuru’s tears of a freshwater stream lost on its way to the vast ocean.

Yuzuru’s body…

Javier stares at the mirror in front of him, the one in the inner chambers so he could adjust the buttons of his cassock and the length of the stole, but it is not him that he sees reflected in the crystalline surface. There is nothing in the periphery of his sight except the pristine white garment of his altar boy, hung by the hook on the wall, the braided sash with no waist to tie. It is almost haunting how petite the alb seems to be, choosing its owner rather than being picked up and used. It is as if it was designed for a frame as delicate as…

… Yuzuru’s.

The sacred scriptures might be colossal in his mortal grasp but it is his legs that have become bulky and Javier stumbles back as he tries to stand up, a cramp assaulting the muscle of thigh. It hurts the constricting force on the quadriceps, the sudden weight gain travelling to the bone, on the exact same spot where _he_ had perched during the confession.

 

 

It is already past midnight and the church bells have announced the dawn of the hours of a new day but the young man’s throbbing sobs are the only chimes the priest can hear clearly. He massages his back in soothing circles badly etched, hugging Yuzuru tighter in his embrace when the raging hiccoughs almost rip his chest apart. His altar boy clings to him, a kitten afraid of a thundering storm, and yet the claws drawn to defend what was still intact and not broken.

It is safe here, Javier wants to tell him, that he won’t let him be lost in the abyss of his own guilt, like how he whispers in silence when the tears soak his shirt and the lukewarm wetness tinges his chest, right where his heart hammers against his ribcage. Between the furious slaughter of his pulse and Yuzuru’s muffled cries, he thinks that the combined rhythm of their bodies is the most beautiful symphony. A _presto_ movement that soon becomes an _adagio_ , until it recedes to a still quietude and sleeping breaths, ticklish on the priest’s nape.

Javier doesn’t dare to move, afraid he might disturb the peaceful comfort flimsily settled on the young man’s shoulders. Yuzuru’s silhouette is light, not of a child though, and he fits just perfectly on his arms, tailored to the crook of his elbows and molding into the fastened wrists. His black hair, darker than the night, is just like Effie’s fur, pliant but also a few rebel strands poking from the top of his head, perhaps his own version of the bristling whiskers. He smells of expensive perfume, of mature tart magnolias, too strong at first and yet it is vanilla that lingers when the volatile scent dissipates. Perhaps stray cats too were able to metamorphose into humans that had just wallowed to this town and refused to be a feline again.

The arrival of the piercingly sharp pop ringtone of an incoming call startles not only the priest but the ceiling beams in the church as well, the wooden pillars cracking at the deafening jingle. It is not prying when Javier retrieves the electronic, he tells himself, as he dives his hand to the front pocket of Yuzuru’s jeans, touching the supple but firm skin of his hips through a thin layer of linen. He is not feverish but his cheeks brighten and the air in the nave is slightly warmer.

There is a short strap tied to the phone, a tiny yellow and orange bear with a pot of honey hanging at its end, and the name _Nathan_ flashes on the screen. It is not meddling when he accidentally presses the green command, accepting the call.

‘Hey Yuzu,’ it is a boyish voice, calm but also tipping into a vivacious outburst, ‘Stéphane got us a room with Guillaume. Please come this time! He says he wants to see how good you are at it.’ He holds his breath as he tries to digest all the names and oblivious to the conversation. ‘C’mon, don’t let me do all the job again. I’ll call Tian and we could have a go the three of us at the same time. It will be fun, I promise. Have we ever not had fun together?’, He grips the phone harder as he presses it to his ear. ‘Yuzu? Are you there, Yuzu? Did he confiscate your phone again? Or did you go to see your savior in that church you love so much? Yuzu?’

‘Father Javi?’

Divine Providence materializes in the form of sweat on his palms and the device slips the to the surface of the bench, the impact combined with the low battery levels switching off the phone inclusive. It is the young man who snatches it away immediately, even if his eyelids are still heavy from the lethargic drowsiness and subtly swollen from the remnants of tears.

‘Yuzu–’

‘Did you call someone? Did someone call?’ The dread in his red gaze almost consumes the beautiful glimmer of his obsidian pupils. ‘Who was it? You saw the name, didn’t you? Was it he? Who was it? Tell me.’

‘Yuzuru,’ Javier smiles gently as he shakes his head, ‘it wasn’t important.’ He remembers clearly the name and the number but he won’t shed a word about it. It was someone, just anyone, only a string of letters and digits to a non-existing face. The time is only theirs now and the priest wants every second of it to be his and Yuzuru’s only. It is still confession and he will not have anyone else partake into this moment between him and the one seeking penitence.

‘You don’t understand, he…’, the young man finally realizes why there is an imbalance of their heights and the softness where he sits, that is not the back of the bench that supports his frame but a pair of hands tiptoeing on the hilly trail of his spine, ‘… Father Javi. I’m so sorry!’

It is a reel of images, of a succession of negatives flashing in his eyes, of surprise and embarrassment, of nervous mirth and timid apology, that Javier sees in his altar boy, just like his mouth that contorts into a myriad of shapes even when no sound comes out. He can’t contain the insistent flailing of his limbs to veer away from the priest and restore the proper distance between their bodies though, the surge of strength in Yuzuru overpowering him. His altar boy escapes from their mock wrestling match, serious and foolishly silly too, and he bumps his forehead directly into the pew in front of him, an aching wail hauled from his parted lips as he rests on the carpeted floor in a stance between kneeling and sitting.

Javier chuckles as he lowers himself, almost mimicking the same positions they were in before. He lifts Yuzuru’s face by the chin and he brushes away the strands that had befallen over the bruised skin. A patch of rose adorning just above the bridge of his nose and the priest draws a dry cross on the same mark of the baptism.

‘May He guide you to the path of wisdom.’

‘I am not a child.’ Javier nods. ‘I don’t need your–’

‘I know.’ He leans backwards and he draws the same crucifix on his own forehead, sharing an equal blessing. They are the same, blood, flesh and faith. ‘You are not a child. You are…’, he swallows harshly the lump at his throat, one that was obstructing his speech, ‘… you are my altar boy.’

The silence in the sacred house is just as solacing as Yuzuru squirms sheepishly until they are sitting side by side on the kneelers. He fidgets too much when his mind goes on a word-fishing journey, Javier already knows, just as the almost imperceptible twitch on his eyelid and a faint tilt of head. The priest doesn’t expect though the hand that presses right in the middle of his chest, one that jolts him into an arrhythmic pace again, and the soft thumb that taps gingerly on his mouth.

‘Thank you, Father Javi. You are my…’, Yuzuru too draws a cross on him, his fingertip hesitantly brushing his lips. ‘… you really resemble him. The one with the name of a saint.’

Had saints ever experienced this caustic tingling on the top of their skins, this itch that seeped slowly into the core, like how the blazed wick thaws a candle until all the wax is melted, and baring oneself to a depth that not even they knew it existed?

Had saints ever wished it wasn’t just a finger but…

 

 

‘Javier?’

It is not the angel’s tenor that drags him back to the shore from the shipwreck, his figure almost glued to the mirror when his conscience returns to the material vessel. His knuckles are pale from gripping the worn bible and he doesn’t know if his next breath is of relief or trepidation.

‘Brian,’ He straightens his back immediately as per instinct, a skittish smile on his face and he bows slightly with his head, ‘your excellency Orser.’

‘May God’s grace be with you.’

‘May He protect me from my sins.’ Javier kisses the bishop’s extended hand, right where the ecclesiastical ring is, the cut bloodstone gelid on his lips.

The older man greets a final blessing for formalities but he opens his arms and encircles them around the static silhouette of the priest. It is a pat on the frankincense shoulder blades as Javier remembers, always larger than his own, probably to better shelter all the clerical knowledge he dictates.

‘Did you forget I was coming?’ Brian rubs his apprentice’s cheeks, a little stubble on the jaws, as he did all the times when they were summoned for meetings. It is just to confirm if he is eating properly and Javier relaxes in the fatherly care.

‘No.’ A lie that he can barely disguise. ‘I just thought you were coming later. Where are you staying?’

‘With me.’ Daniil knocks at the wooden door frame, a travel rucksack by his feet. ‘I happen to have a spare room and we all know how adopted stray cats are not used to strangers.’

The blond priest’s wink behind Bishop Brian is only for the two of them and Javier mentally thanks his fellow partner for this disgruntled arrangement, as he leaves with the luggage, mumbling something incoherent about taming wild animals.

‘It’s Sunday today.’ The older man gives a last squeeze on his arms and adjust the clerical collar, just enough for his rosewood beaded rosary to be seen. ‘I would like you to be my assistant today, Javier.’

Brian is the newcomer to town but it is as if he had known the layout of the sanctuary like a blueprint before his eyes. Even the small wardrobe has a black cassock that is tailored to him, together with the amaranth fascia, much wider than the ones Javier had ever worn. He helps his teacher don the purple stole, the color of royalty, almost imperial and imposing.

Did Yuzuru also see him as such, a king without a dynasty to reign?

‘Do you know why I am here, my boy?’

‘Isn’t supervising dioceses part of your duties?’ He looks at the alb hanging next to them though, the completely opposite of the opulent one the Bishop sports. ‘A recurrent missionary to faraway lands and a shepherd for ordained herds. Like you used to tell us.’

‘You know how I have always thought of you as my own son.’

‘We are all children of His kingdom.’

‘May your faith never waver then, Javier.’ Brian turns around, holding his crucifix. He notices the young man that suddenly halts his gait by the door as their gazes meet, steps light as if levitating. ‘We expect great things from you, beyond this small town one day.’

Javier keeps buttoning his own ceremonial garment, unaware of another presence in the room. ‘I will go where my calling guides me. If it is away, I–’

‘Are you going to leave, Father Javi?’

The priest shifts his posture towards the origin of that sweet voice, of the apparition under the stained glass of Eden. Yuzuru grips the strap of his messenger bag as he waits for an answer, burying his chin further into the cocoon of his white scarf. He walks in slowly as Brian offers him way, cutting Javier’s response, lost in the overcast air between all three men.

‘What is your name, boy?’

‘Yuzuru…’, he is confused as a cornered hare, not daring to falter his gaze from the bishop, ‘… your Reverend.’

‘Of the children’s choir? I heard that even heavens rejoiced with the beauty of the hymns they have sung. Or so Father Daniil told me.’ Brian takes the young man’s hand into his own, dispelling the uneasiness that had wrongly translated into harm.

‘Father Daniil is too kind. They will perform today in the mass as well, your Reverend.’ There is still a restless edginess to Yuzuru and the arrival of higher figure. He retrieves his hand, nodding before he aims at his alb. I will have them–’

‘Yuzuru is my altar boy.’ It is just a statement, a single affirmation but the taut restraint at which he punctuates the syllables hardly hides his defensiveness. ‘I need someone to help me.’ Very faint is the smile on the young man’s face as he sheds off his coat but Javier catches it, imprinting it in a photography of his imagination.

‘Of course you do.’ The bishop gestures his leave not before pointing at the clock to remind them of the imminent Sabbath. ‘He can service us both today then. Help thy neighbor.’

The clanking of the latches of the door as it closes almost solves the knot on the priest’s lungs and it finally acquits a relieved breath, louder than he had expected. He doesn’t know what is wrong with him, where the latent anxiety is thriving in and why he is behaving worse than a spoiled toddler, but when Yuzuru breaks the silence surrounding them, he swears he can still feel the fingertip skimming a cross on his own lips.

‘Are you going to leave, Father Javi?’ He looks to the wall, his sagged shoulders and profile the only thing the priest can stare at.

‘No. Brian is only here for a few days.’

‘Is it because of me? Yuzuru tries to pull out his bag but it is trapped into the long and puffy scarf. ‘He has heard about it too, hasn’t he? He is here to take you away.’

Javier walks to the young man, grabbing the leather strap before it snaps from the upsetting force Yuzuru is pulling the pouch. ‘I am not going anywhere.’ The tassels of cotton dangle on his knuckles and he seizes the uneven hems within his palm. ‘I am not leaving this church, this parish. I am not leaving you.’

Javier unties the first loop around his altar boy’s neck, loosening a ribbon of white, until he too struggles to release it from the gravity of the bag. Yuzuru chuckles at his own clumsiness that must have infected the one with the name of a saint and he twirls on the spot, wrapping himself in the stole just as quick as he peels it from his neck, an improvised dancing game. There are a few blooming spots of coral on his pale complexion, probably from the cool end-of-winter breeze from the outside, but it is the tiny coffee mole, the slightly darting vein running along to the notch of his collarbones, and the quivers of the Adam’s apple that the cleric notices, how slender his neck is, hosting the rosary he had given him.

He wonders if it could fit within his grasp, just as his waist would.

‘Is this a promise, Father Javi?’ Their gazes are locked again, obsidians on almonds, the infinite of the universe with the perfumed soil of the earth.

‘It’s a secret between us. Only us.’

Yuzuru shakes his head as he slips on the vestal alb. ‘You are wrong, Father Javi. You will leave.’ He extends the braided sash to the priest, as he always does. ‘You have to go to mass now.’


	5. Part V - Promise Me Only Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of a bishop that washes feet, Effie and her love for tuna, and a vow taken by the lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, this chapter concludes Service and and I think you will understand why ;) Thank you so much for the support for far in this series and we hope to bring you more joy very, very soon.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of FICTION. This is also not a commentary on religion. Art for art's sake.

‘In name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit…’

It is the first time that Javier does not preside a Sunday service since he came to this parish, his hand drawing the sign of the cross from his forehead to his chest. He stands next to Brian as the older cleric initiates the penitential act, the prayers recited with the same soft but stern baritone, perhaps more mechanic, accentuating each syllable as he remembered his mentor always did. Even the townsfolk in the nave are surprised by the presence of the Reverend, the usual gossiping during the singing of the hymns gone, while mothers comb the slick hair of their sons and fathers pull the dresses of their daughters so the laced hems would cover their knees.

‘Brothers and sisters, let us acknowledge our sins,’ the resonance of Brian’s voice surpasses the young priest’s one, the years of power and authority reflected not only in his speech, but in his posture too, in the way he extends his arms for the communal invitation and the swiftness he flips the leather-bound book of Scriptures open, ‘and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries.’

‘Amen.’ It is almost as silent as the breath he takes in, like the first time he did when he joined the seminar, still brave back then, still infatuated by the psalms of eternal joy.

Still so small.

And yet, the words of the mass pass through him, a breeze that rushes to his face and dissipates just before he can taste it. Maya and Alex tap their feet to the rhythm of their _This Little Light of Mine_ duet, the whole choir following their guiding gestures, but Javier’s soul wanders around the sacred house. The flames of the candelabra on the altar that burns brighter than the votive candles by the statue of saint Xavier, the fresh bird of paradise flowers on the basins of the baptism fountain, the timid peeking of a sunshine of this cloudy day that glides over the stained-glass panel shifting all the colors to their lighter counterparts, garnet to cherry, cobalt to lapis.

Yuzuru too, he observes, as he tilts his head just slightly to the side, his altar boy flailing his thin limbs as he conducts the little angels, a note higher, a verse lower, the countdown with fingers for the end of the first chant and the gentle squeeze on Mace’s shoulders as the youngest boy steps to the pulpit for the weekly reading.

It is a normal mass and Javier knows by heart the whole procession of prayers and liturgical duties but he finds himself staring, more times than he can count, at the sight of the young man with black hair, darker than the night, sitting by Brian’s side, opposite to his. Just like the way he fidgets with the strings of the tassel of his braided sash, Yuzuru’s mouth quirk into different, subtle shapes as he mumbles something mutely during the sermon of the bishop. He shakes his head, his lips part again, an upsetting frown of brows, the priest too laughs at the cartoonish caricature of his altar boy, of a man who becomes a child and a child who is already a man.

They both get up at the same time, the dragging of the wooden chairs disrupting a couple of words from Brian’s message, and Yuzuru is the first one to reach the tabernacle. Perhaps the sanctuary is really a harbor for those that seek to berth their restlessness, as Javier forgets about all the makeup smeared faces and ironed suits in the nave. In the innermost part of the church, he shelters the young man from the cold drafts, Javier tells himself, as he stands behind Yuzuru, the white alb underlining the narrow shoulders and leaving unprotected the sliver of skin between his nape and the collar, except for the beads of the rosary resting there. It is a corner only theirs.

‘Father Javi.’ Yuzuru almost flinches as he turns around, the chalice of the sacramental wine in his grasp, unaware that he had been followed.

‘Are you okay?’ He takes the golden cup, so polished it is that it reflects his own eyes by the brim.

‘Are _you_ okay, Father Javi?’

‘Why?’

‘Nothing.’ The young man chuckles at the confused look in the priest’s face. ‘Nothing. Just nothing.’ He locks the silver case after retrieving the box for the hosts. ‘Should I go for communion today?’

‘You have made your confession, haven’t you?’ He nods sheepishly. ‘Go with the children. They are waiting for you.’

‘And you, Father Javi?’ Yuzuru grips the casket of the sacramental bread tighter. ‘Have you waited for me?’

The lumps on his throat lodges against his windpipe, pasting the vocal chords together, closing not the entry for air but refusing to let the oxygen be expelled so it collects and recollects on his lungs, threatening to burst open his chest. ‘I–’

‘Bless me, Father with the name of a saint.’

It is the same smile of resignation on his altar boy, the same balancing on the balls of his feet and the same unruly strand on the fringe that looms over the bridge of his nose. Javier takes a step forward, perhaps only even half a stride, but he can feel Yuzuru’s frame tremble at their proximity, a shiver so microscopic he would pull him to his lap again if they were alone. He extends his thumb, drawing the same cross on the young man’s forehead.

Both men almost forget about the Eucharist session until Brian calls for the communal prayer of the last supper. It is Yuzuru who pours the holy water for both clerics to wash their hands and the priest hisses as the crystalline liquid soaks his skin, burning the tip of his fingers. The towel too, woven from cotton of the fields of the town and yet rough, like sandpaper.

‘The Body of Christ.’ The bishop smiles at him as he extends his open palms for the round wafer, hiding the bizarre reactions of his nerves to the quintessential ritual.

‘Amen.’ The thin bread, bland and of baked wheat, dissolves in his mouth, calming him somehow…

… until his mentor turns to Yuzuru, repeating the exact same steps. Brian refuses to lower his will though, when the altar boy offers his hand too, pressing the host onto the pink, moist lips instead.

‘The Body of Christ, my boy.’

The young man obeys as he takes the wafer with his tongue, his gaze shifting to Javier over the reverend’s shoulder for just a few milliseconds, before swallowing it.

‘ _Good boy_.’

Javier doesn’t know if the half moons carved on the back of his hand are of his regret of not taking Yuzuru’s first communion or of the leftover bitterness on his saliva from the biscuit. It is not, he reassures himself mentally, of the Adam’s apple on the pale and slender neck that throbs just above the alb’s collar.

 

 

The view on the whole nave from the mezzanine balcony makes it barely the same church as Yuzuru leans over the latticed railing. The pews and kneelers on each side of the central aisle are but thick, parallel stripes of brown, the figures of the different martyrs mere statues, and the beams on the ceiling are much closer that he extends his hand just to see if he can touch one of the columns. He sits by the ancient pipe organ, a thin layer of dust over the monochrome keys, and he blows away the ashen particles. His fingers hover over the console without pressing them.

‘I’ve heard you played the piano as well.’

Brian is slightly out of breath from the steep set of stairs, still wearing his cassock though without the surplus stoles and banners of his rank, and Yuzuru nods at the statement, offering him the velvet bench as he stands back to the stone barrier.

‘You have done an amazing job with the children. I could see that they cherish you a lot.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiles in gratitude, bowing somewhat. ‘They are a superb group. I was planning their formation for next week.’

‘Then you should include _Adeste Fideles_. It’s–’

‘Father Javi’s favorite.’ The priest is talking to a couple of middle-aged mothers from his angels just besides the altar, Yuzuru notices, but he quickly darts his gaze back to the bishop. ‘He likes it the most.’

‘You seem to know a lot about Javier.’ The older man pats to the cushioned empty space next to his, inviting the dark-haired youth to sit next to him. ‘You are a good acolyte to him.’

He is not sure whether he should refuse or not and his steps are hesitant. The cleric persists on the appeal and they are side by side as Yuzuru catches a last glance of the hazelnut locks and his ears register the obnoxiously loud laughter of the leaving housewives.

‘Your hand, my boy. Give me your hand.’ Brian’s touch on the center of his palm is nothing like Javier’s, frigidly polar, the wrinkles not lying of his age and the certainty he holds his wrist almost hurts. The bishop places his own rosary on the top of the different lines of his hand, the string of petite silver spheres slipping between his fingers. ‘It is heavy, isn’t it? It is the weight of uncorrupted faith that I have promised Him.’ Yuzuru tries to retrieve his hand but Brian has him anchored to the spot. ‘It has bore all the struggles of our sacred family. Christ the Lord’s, my own, Daniil’s. Javier’s too. All the sacrifices he has done so he could serve his calling.’

‘Father Javi is a good man. He is a good priest.’

‘That’s why I can’t have him vacillating while under His judgment.’

‘It’s impossible.’ He takes a deep breath, recoiling further into his own silhouette. ‘There is nothing that could waver his devotion.’

‘Was he the one who baptized you?’

‘Y-yes.’ Yuzuru stumbles on his own affirmation as he nods. ‘Yes, he was.’

‘My boy,’ Brian places his free hand right on top of the altar boy’s chest where his own crucifix is and where all the other crosses were carved, ‘faith is a choice and one that Javier should not stray away from. He needs your help to not meander in paths he does not know.’

‘I don’t know which–’, he bites his lower lip as all resistance leaves his body.

‘There are things that are not worth it. And you know very well which things these are, my boy.’

It is the same mists on the eyes of the townsfolk the fog on Brian’s gaze that pierces through him. The haze of pregnant blame that had fallen onto him so many times he had lost count, from the pointing fingers of the pharmacist, the murmur on the alley of the fishmonger, his mother’s suggestions for a proper curfew, the swing of the back of his father’s hand. He closes his eyes abruptly, as if he could feel the knuckles right on his cheek, the tears welling up.

‘I need to go.’

‘Yes. I didn’t realize it was this late. Sorry to have kept you for so long.’

Yuzuru smiles as the bishop finally releases his hand, the older man telling him how righteous they must long to be and how he must not let the devil burden his beautiful shoulders.

‘Can you do me a favor, my boy?’

He stops by the top step of the spiral staircase, his figure already half hidden by the shadows. ‘What can I do for my, your Reverend?’

‘You’ll be my only acolyte this coming service. Javier is not needed.’

‘Why?’ He slips down if not for his knees that bend and support his inertia just in time. ‘This church belongs to him.’

‘Yes, it is. Don’t get me wrong, boy. I’m just giving him a short holiday. That’s it.’

 

 

It is the second time that Javier does not preside a Sunday mass since this village has accepted him to their bosom. Especially during a festive day such as today as he sits by the second row of the pews on the left, together with Alex as the young boy is pouting and sulking for not being in the choir.

‘Did you miss rehearsals this week?’ The priest lowers his sitting stance just a little so them both could be of a same height.

‘No… yes.’ He shakes his head and almost jumps to Javier, pressing his hand on his thigh. ‘I came yesterday but Yuzu forbade me from singing today. It could be just one song.’

The voice of the young boy does sound slightly raspier, too hoarse for the prepubescent chords. Javier runs a hand in a descending motion by his back as a bout of cough attack the infant lungs.

‘Yuzu is worried about you. It would hurt him if he knew you were angry at him.’

‘I’m not angry. I’m just…’, Alex dangles his feet back and forth, careful not to hit the bench, ‘Yuzu is very sad. He misses you a lot, Father Javier.’

‘Did he…’, he rises as Brian and _his_ own altar boy stand side by side, ‘… did he tell you that?’

The young boy nods energetically. ‘Not only Yuzu, we all miss you. The new Father is not fun.’ Javier ruffles the soloist’s hair, tickling the spot behind his ears. ‘Yuzu says you’re in detention, but not from school. So if we all behave well, you will come back quicker.’

The weekly service is as normal as all the other times and the priest relives the uncanny déjà vu of the opening chants and Yuzuru mumbling along the lyrics, of the reading of the Scriptures and Yuzuru fixing the rows in the choir and the upside down booklets on the hands of the most sleepy ones, the sermon of the week and Yuzuru crossing his legs and returning to his initial posture immediately seconds later, the curious sweep of eyes, of his dark eyes that bloom under the embers of the candles he lights almost with his breath, that now are perched on him, and on him only, as if the church had no one else besides the two of them.

It is not communion though what has Javier at the edge of his seat, nor the wafer that dwells excessively long on his palate before converging with his esophagus and stomach. It is his foot, not one, two, his pair of feet, as his altar boy sits in front of his mentor, the alb pulled just above his knees, the exposed ankles submerged in the bronze pail of holy water. Yuzuru tries but he can’t hide the embarrassed welp as Brian brings the cotton cloth to his toes, between the small digits, the soles rough from his barefoot escapades, until the fabric settles on his shins and the muscles of his calf.

It is the ceremony of the Washing of Feet, Yuzuru the servant who becomes the master…

Yuzuru is no servant for Brian to command…

Neither is he a master who…

But Yuzuru is not Brian’s acolyte. He is…

Javier excuses himself from the crowd at the nave, apologizing for disrupting the procession of those chosen to go through the ritual as well, and the unintentional force with which he closes the door to the inner chambers is luckily blended into the drumming jingles of the tambourine to _We’re Marching to Zion_. He holds onto the frame of the mirror and the man reflected on the surface is someone he barely recognizes.

Yuzuru is _his_ altar boy. _His_. No one else’s.

‘Father Javi?’

The young man materializes in almost as an apparition. He places the holy water dish by the cupboard, spilling a few drops to the surrounding tiles. He wears his shoes again, the cleric notices, not naked (his feet), and the hems of his alb too covers his lower limbs.

‘Is everything okay? I saw you running here so I thought you–’

‘I’m fine.’ He turns around until his back hits the crystalline area. ‘I must have caught Effie’s cold last night.’

‘Won’t you do another miracle for her, Father Javi?’

‘I don’t think hay fevers are on my exorcism list.’

They both laugh, a little restrained, afraid that the jubilant whispers will be heard outside. It is a secret of theirs this mirth of a world lost in time, even just for a few minutes, where there is only an angel of dark wings and a mortal with a saint’s name.

‘Won’t you come…’, Javier trails lines and polygons on the mirror, doodles he cannot see but envision, ‘… my place? You haven’t seen her for some time. And stray cats grow so quickly. She…’, it is not a cartoon that he draws with imaginary ink but the name of his acolyte, ‘… she misses you.’

‘Only her?’ Yuzuru lowers his gaze, his fingers pinching the folds between his thumb and index. The clock in the room strikes eleven. ‘Reverend Brian is waiting for me to finish the mass.’

The final hosanna of the service is being sung by the choir and Javier points in direction of the sanctuary. ‘He can do it by himself.’

‘For Effie?’ The altar boy presses his lips together into an impish smirk as he unties the sash around his waist and throws it to the priest.

He just catches it with more certainty than ever, as if he was already expecting the braided girdle to fly towards him. ‘For Effie.’

_And for me._

 

 

The march to his home is one of silence, except for a few occasional giggles of no reason and purpose that overflow from their chests, and the key that unlocks his door with a screeching yelp. The streets were almost desert when they left the house of the Lord, the townsfolk still in prayer either in the church or in their beds, but Yuzuru insisted on a few shortcuts, alleyways, narrow and obscure, damp from the leaking water pipes of the houses, and fences too, as they climbed over abandoned gardens and dilapidated paths. Javier never thought Yuzuru was so agile, hoping over railings without much effort and landing in feathery anchors that were precise and elegant.

Just like a stray cat, wild and unyielding.

The priest somehow swallows of relief as he mentally thanks himself for not having made a mess out of his living room, only a few loose newspaper pages on his coffee table and the stale half-full mug of coffee from his breakfast as he hangs his keys on the horns of a bull figurine. He notices how his altar boy seems afraid to step into these four walls, looking at every possible corner, studying the satin sheen of the light cream paint with his fingertips, the couple of blotches of mildew on the ceiling plaster. He spells to himself the different titles of the books just under the TV, together with a photograph of a much younger Javier in regal garb, and he laughs when he almost trips on the two metal bowls on the floor, milk and tuna flakes in each.

‘You really spoil her.’ He squats and looks around, trying to get a glimpse of the kitten.

‘She must have been royalty in her past life.’ Javier points to his own bedroom. ‘She already gave me the ultimatum to move to the sofa.’

‘I hope you will fulfill her majesty’s wish.’ The young man peeks at the minimal gap, not daring to enter. ‘Or I would have to hunt you for my ladyship.’

‘I thought you trusted me more.’

‘I do.’ He nods to himself, his middle digit dipping into the cold drink. ‘I really do, Father Javi.’

‘Don’t make her wait for you any longer then.’ Javier pushes the door open gently, the dim sunshine that penetrates through the window lighting a few suspended dust particles, like a shower of midget snowflakes. The altar boy is static, bound to the few trunk rings of the flooring, the crusade of curiosity battling with the consternation of breaching into somewhere he shouldn’t stamped on his face. The priest extends his hand, inviting, even if it trembles slightly.

Yuzuru’s phone rings as their palms meet, the jingle muffled on his bag, and the young man grips the hand tighter, ignoring the annoying music. It is funny how Javier tiptoes in his own space, perhaps the jittery anxiety of his altar boy ramifying to his own nerves, erasing from his memory the layout of his own chambers, of the light switch to the left, the mid-length curtains of salmon, two pillows when he only needed one.

Effie is oblivious to the two men as she occupies the spot right in the center of the bed, her body curled into a fur ball of white and brown chocolate fur, tail meeting with whiskers. It is not large the depression on the mattress when Yuzuru sits near her, but she is startled awake with the impact.

‘My éclair and strawberry shortcake.’ The young man lifts her to his lap, not recognizing how big and fat she had grown. The cat stretches on his arm, her claws diving into his sports jacket, and she hikes up his torso, the wet nose kissing his chin. Yuzuru too kisses the top of her head, mint shampoo and the lemon of the sheets.

His two stray cats lie side by side as they share secrets in the tongue of high-pitched meows and purrs and groans. Javier has never seen his altar boy smile as free as now, not even when with the choir, with Maya or Alex, his hair disheveled as he rolls around, bound to nothing, not even gravity. Maybe he is really flying and his wings are not for his eyes, but he knows he has them.

Javier has never seen anyone so beautiful.

‘Why did you become a priest, Father Javi?’ The young man supports himself on his elbow. ‘It’s time for your own confession.’

He walks to the edge of the bed, suddenly too conscious of his obsessive staring. ‘Who will wipe my tears if I can’t stop?’ Javier almost regrets his joke but Yuzuru’s flushed cheeks at the reminder of that night complements his pale complexion even more.

‘You have Effie.’ The kitten nudges closer to the altar boy’s navel, ears down as she drifts to sleep once again. ‘I have no one.’

‘You have…’, he smooths the wrinkled sheets, more appearing as he drapes and he shifts around, ‘… you have me.’

Yuzuru imitates the sway of wrists on the covers as his head rest just below the pillows. He closes his eyes, the mild movements conducting the invisible ripples of the air. ‘Tell me about you calling. I want to know about you.’

Javier tells him of how he was always late to classes in high school, especially statistics, but how he would always be the first one to go to the church on the weekends, even before his sister had woken up. ‘How does your sister look like?’ A man with long hair and a beard, louder than the butcher who only sold goats on Tuesdays and sheep on Wednesdays. He tells his acolyte how he once went to a cathedral in another city and that the statue of saint Javier standing in the middle of a shipwreck was as if he had suddenly swan in the same stormy seas and that he was alive because faith had saved him. ‘How romantic.’ He tells him that the seminar is exactly what people think, a place where one’s rheumatism worsens from always kneeling and where strangers think the clerics are always in search of lost coins because they constantly bow to the passing reverends. ‘That is…’ He tells how Father Daniil and he were in different quarters but they would sneak in papers, folded messages during philosophy lectures, testing bishop Brian’s patience in their own devised scale.

He wants to tell him more, of the pear trees that bloomed in April and the hail on July, the large canonical texts in Latin they used to sit on and the handwritten letters of the those before being sanctified, but Yuzuru too has drifted to the realm of Morpheus, his dark strands falling over his eyelashes and his breathing synchronized with Effie’s. His shoulders twitch with the cool breeze that slithers through the minimal chasm of the window panes, the jerks bringing both cats closer to each other for mutual warmth.

The priest smiles as he watches the live painting before his eyes, the impressionists’ colors on the calico fur and the surrealists’ strokes on the young man’s silhouette. He raises the blanket at their feet to protect them but as he pulls the hem up, his knuckles brushes by the exposed waist, the one always tied by the sash. Yuzuru is thin, impossibly slender, but it is supple the skin where his fingers touch, feebly, not wanting to stir him awake. It is truly warm, the fever scattering through his palm to his arm and constricting his throat, but he keeps tiptoeing upwards, the last rib of his chest, the one above, the perk bud of his nipple, soft like cotton…

… until the altar boy coughs, just a light expelling of air but Javier retrieves his hand immediately, taking a step back and he almost falls to the floor from the brute escape of his own. He feels his heart might be carved from its cage and he shakes at the ardor that contracts his muscles. He does not understand this, this desire to have not only his waist but…

The priest leaves the room, his back sliding down the door as he closes it. He stares at the ceiling, begging for forgiveness from His grace.

 

 

It is already twilight when Yuzuru’s eyes open, his irises not trying to register the mauve shades in the sky, translated into fuchsia in the room. The aroma of lime is fresh but subtle, and the young man inhales it from the sheets, a scent that soothes him and that he remembers from always lingering from the cassock of the hazelnut-haired cleric. He sits slowly, retracting as the cat’s sandpaper tongue lavishes his navel, and he takes her to his arms, stopping the tickling vengeance.

‘Father Javi?’

There is no one else on the room and the crisp evening gusts are unforgiving, and yet, the remnants of a fading incandescence warm his limbs and his waist. It must be Effie and her ambulant heater ability.

The interior of the house is dark, only the flashing light of the digital wall clock and the passing of pictures on the TV providing a minimal glow to the surrounding environment. He walks to the kitchen, releasing the feline queen to the prepared feast of canned fishcakes and milk, and the pet promptly ignores him, hungrily chomping large chunks of the meal. Yuzuru notices how everything is minimalistic, nothing too personal, perhaps a coffee bean fallen and forgotten in the corner and a leftover slice of bread by the toaster, and yet there is certain nostalgia to the wooden floor that he steps on, a laughter mixed into the knobs and handle, and a dollop of vanilla cream on the sofa as he crouches by the armrest.

The movie about mocking space cowboys and friendly aliens must have been extremely boring for Javier to have fallen asleep, the list of credits already running up the screen. Yuzuru tucks a particularly curly lock behind the priest’s ear, the tress not obeying him, and he repeats, gently, over and over, suppressing a chuckle. The stubble at his jaw and chin is still not rough but the stubborn hairs already mark their territory. His lips though, Yuzuru gulps as his thumb hovers over them, are chapped from the dry air. He leans closer, just a little closer, until he can drink of the breath from his mouth and he kisses Javier.

Chaste, unhurried, just the touch of flesh against flesh, moist to his priest, as he presses further into the caress, firm to his own.

When he parts their lips, his tongue licking the vestiges of a taste he can’t define, Yuzuru almost gasps, his lungs refusing to coordinate his inhalations, as he sees the confusion, the surprise and the interrogations, all blended and flooding the almond eyes in front of him.

‘Yuzuru?’

‘Father Javi…’, the priest’s rosary is dangling from his neck and he covers his mouth immediately, shaking his head, ‘… I’m so sorry!’

He stands up with the premature rashness of his dread and horror, bumping his knee into the corner of the coffee table, tough it is his own stupidity that hammers his temples and chastise his even more ill impulses, and he dashes to the door, hoping the nightmare (but he had never felt _better_ ) would have been just a prank of a dream. He is already half way out when a hand catches his wrist, hauling him back in, shoving his shoulders and back against the wooden frame.

Yuzuru has barely found his balance when Javier locks their lips together, just how they were, more urgent, their teeth pressing against the walls of their mouths, almost savage, bruising the plumpness of each of them, tongues sweeping as they meet when the desperation for air clashes with their own moans laced with saliva, making them cling to each other even more. Clumsy as his legs fail to resist the surge of heat shooting down his spine, the altar boy clutches to the priest’s shirt, his nails almost digging into his collarbones with the strength he pulls the fabric, one that rips apart the rosary.

The rose timber beads fall to the ground, every single one echoing from the impact. The crucifix though, it stays in his and Javier’s joined hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:  
> *Communion Wafer/Bread/Host: a think round slice of bread that is used in the Eucharist and symbolizes the body of Christ.  
> *Tabernacle: a small compartment/box where the communion wafer and wine is stored.  
> *Nave: the central part of the church where people normally sit.  
> *Chancel, including the Sanctuary: the inner part of the church after the altar where only clergy people are allowed to enter.  
> *Cassock/alb: long tunic/garments that priests and assistants wear. These are normally white or black, though other colors are also allowed.  
> *Fascia: the sash of the cassock/alb  
> *Stole: colored bands worn around the neck over the priest's cassock.  
> *Transept: transverse part of a building. In a church designed as a cross, it is the 'shortest stick'.  
> *Pew: the benches in a church. These can include a kneeler so people's knees do not have to touch the ground directly.  
> *Acolyte: an assistant to the priest during service. This person also performs other duties in the church, such as lighting candles, keeping records, and so forth.


End file.
